


Joining

by nlans



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 12:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12681651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nlans/pseuds/nlans
Summary: Prompt: "Alistair helps Bethany grow to love joining the Wardens, and come to terms with her magic."This isn't a pairing I've written for before, but I was instantly in love with the idea of these two together! I hope you enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haraya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haraya/gifts).



By the time Alistair finished the trek to the Warden camp, it was the end of a long day fighting Darkspawn and he wanted nothing more than to sit by a fire, put his feet up, and get some space from Oghren and Nathaniel. The two, normally friends, had been bickering all day—something about a pair of Nathaniel’s boots that had met an unfortunate fate. Alistair was also  _ very  _ tired of Oghren shoving a flask under his nose. The dwarf had purchased a mysterious clear whiskey from a farm along the road. It smelled like something you’d use to clean tar off wood.

But instead of the usual well-ordered Warden camp, they walked into a shouting match.

In the center of the camp, as the other Wardens watched, a broad-shouldered man with serious eyes and a heavy mustache was facing down a slender woman with greying blonde hair. “We are not a charity, Stroud,” the woman snapped in a heavy Orlesian accent. “We cannot offer the Joining to every foolish girl who decides the Deep Roads will be an adventure. I would not wish the Blight on anyone, but she chose this fate when she chose to enter Darkspawn territory.”

“She is a mage, Clarel,” Stroud replied—though Alistair could feel him wavering under the force of the woman’s disapproval. “And Ferelden besides. She witnessed the destruction of Lothering and survived weeks in the Deep Roads. With training, and time …”

“Time is a luxury we do not have,” the older Warden snapped.

Behind him, Alistair could feel Nathaniel bristle. “Are they really discussing what I think they’re discussing?”

“Letting someone die of Blight because they don’t feel like training her?” Alistair sighed. “Oh, no. I’m sure we misheard.”

He stepped closer to the pair of Orlesians and raised his voice. “Actually, we’ve got a lot more time now that the Fifth Blight’s over. Did you know that the Fifth Blight was over? The Orlesian Wardens sort of missed out on that one, so I understand if you’re confused. But Oghren here would be happy to tell you the story over several casks of ale.”

Slowly, the two Wardens turned to Alistair and his group. Clarel reacted first; she bent her head, a gesture torn between respect and resentment. “Alistair. I did not hear you return.”

“So. It sounds like you have a dying Ferelden mage somewhere in one of these tents, and you’re arguing about whether to offer her the Joining?” Alistair crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow.

“That is accurate,” Stroud said stiffly.

“It just so happens that I’m a Warden from Ferelden! And we desperately need people! We’re even willing to train them.” He grinned, though he could feel an edge to it. “So how about we get out that nice shiny Joining cup and at least give it a try?”

*

Alistair knew not to get his hopes up about any Warden recruit before the Joining ceremony. But even so, he felt the little shred of optimism in his chest waver when he entered the camp’s medic tent and got his first good look at the mage.

_ Maker. How is she still alive? _

It was hard to tell how old this woman was, or what she had looked like before the Blight had grabbed hold of her. Her lips were nearly black; veins of corruption throbbed black over her temples and cheeks; her breathing was raspy and labored. Her eyes fluttered open as Alistair approached, but he could not tell if she truly saw him.

“They’re getting the chalice,” he said, kneeling next to her cot. “It will only be a moment more.”

A wheezing breath and a nod was his only response.

Alistair wanted to offer her some comfort, to tell her it would be all right. But he did not want to lie to her, either. “My name’s Alistair,” he said. “I’m Ferelden too. I didn’t want you to think we were all Orlesians. No, we offer exciting Darkspawn-battling opportunities to all races and nationalities here at the Wardens.”

Wonder of wonders, the black lips curved in a tiny smile at that.

The flap to the tent pushed back and Stroud entered, the chalice in his hand. As gently as he could, Alistair slid his arm behind the woman’s shoulders and propped her up. The Orlesian Warden touched the cup to the woman’s mouth and tilted it. Her lips parted; she closed her eyes and swallowed.

And then her lids flew open again and her eyes shone pure white.

Alistair’s heart clenched in his chest as she fell back against her pillow, her body tensing in a convulsion, her mouth wide open and gasping for air. Her hands reached out and her fingers curled into claws, desperate for something to hold on to; instinctively, Alistair slid his hand into hers and squeezed, not minding the painful way her fingers dug into his.

It was only a moment before she went still. Her eyes closed once more, and for a moment, Alistair thought it had not worked—that the Joining had taken her, or they had been too late in offering it. But then she took a breath. And then another. The blackness on her lips and temples was still prominent, but the painful wheezing in her chest was ebbing. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

Alistair bowed his head in relief as he pulled his hand from hers.

“Do you know her name?” he asked quietly once they were outside the tent.

“Bethany Hawke.” Stroud drew a heavy breath. “And it seems we have saved her life. Maker willing she will not curse us for it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Bethany was not sure how long she had been sleeping when her eyes fluttered open. It felt as if it had been years, as if enormous chunks of time had passed her by. The last thing she truly remembered was meeting Stroud. She had collapsed soon after the others were out of sight. It had been a blessed relief at the time, no longer having to pretend to be strong, no longer having to pretend she couldn't feel death's fingers reaching for the last Hawke twin.

It took her some moments to get her bearings. She was no longer in the Deep Roads; she was breathing fresh air and could see sunlight creeping into this room. No, not a room—a tent. A medical tent, lined with cots. None of the other cots were occupied at the moment, but the place was clearly well-supplied, ready for over a dozen patients should they need treatment.

_The camp. Stroud said something about the Wardens being camped nearby._

Slowly, Bethany sat up, moving carefully as she tested her strength. To her surprise the movements came easily; the weakness and shaking that had flooded her body as the Blight took hold were gone.

And _Maker_ , she was starving.

“Ah! You _are_ awake!”

Bethany yelped slightly as she spun her head towards the tent’s entrance. A tall man about Bethany’s age was pushing one of the flaps aside, his mouth half-curved in a friendly but tentative smile. He was dressed in Warden blue, though he carried no weapon at the moment. In his hand he held a plate covered with a rough-spun napkin.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, holding it out to her.

Bethany nearly burst into tears of relief as she accepted it. “I am. Very.”

Without even so much as a “thank you,” she tore the napkin off and bit into the first thing she lifted from the plate—a roasted leg from some sort of game bird, a bit dry and lacking seasoning and by far the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted. _It’s a good thing Mother isn’t here to see my awful table manners._

“I thought you might be. I was famished after my Joining,” the man said, taking a seat on the cot next to hers. “Everyone is, apparently. It wears off. Sort of. But you’ll always need to eat more than you did before you became a Warden.”

Bethany paused for a moment, a bite of chicken in between her teeth. _Maker. It … it worked. I’m a Grey Warden?_

It should have been obvious the moment she woke, she realized. She’d known how sick she was. Without this mysterious Joining that they’d refused to explain to her, she would surely be dead. Even so, the confirmation hit her like a blow to the chest.

_I’m alive. But I’ll spend the rest of my days camping in the rain and fighting Darkspawn._

_Was Carver not enough for the Blight? Did it have to take my life from me as well?_

She finished chewing and swallowed, trying to hide her emotions. “I … thank you for thinking to bring me a plate.”

“There’s more where that came from,” the Warden assured her. “Although as a fellow Ferelden, you may find the vegetables unpleasantly crunchy.”

Bethany chuckled at that. “I’m Bethany. What’s your name?”

“I’m Alistair.” He shifted on the cot. “Um. Warden-Lieutenant Alistair, if you want to get formal about it. Which the Orlesians usually do. But just Alistair’s fine.”

Bethany paused with a roll halfway to her lips. “ _You’re_ Alistair. The Alistair who fought with the Hero of Ferelden to defeat the Blight?”

“That’s me,” he said cheerfully. “I wasn’t the only one, mind you. You’ll meet Oghren later. He was part of our group too. You can’t miss him. Dwarf, bright red hair, smells like a distillery. Many distilleries, actually.”

Bethany took an enormous bite of the bread, mostly to give her face something to do besides gawk. For months, the Hero of Ferelden and the brave team who had stopped the Blight had been all the Kirkwall refugees had talked about. And now she was sitting next to one of them?

_Maker. What am I supposed to say to someone who helped save all of Ferelden—all of Thedas, really?_

Alistair seemed utterly oblivious to her reaction. “So you’re a mage?”

Bethany’s fingers tightened in the soft crust of the roll. “I am. Will … is that a problem?” She could still hear Fenris’s first words about her: _a viper_ , he’d called her _._ She also remembered the hungry looks Athenril and Meeran had given her in Kirkwall when they learned of her abilities, both of them calculating how much damage she could do in their service. She wasn’t sure which reaction she feared more.

“It’s a problem for the Darkspawn.” Alistair winced. “And, all right, maybe for a few of the really pious Wardens. But we don’t have many of those in Ferelden. Actually we don’t have many Wardens, period.” He sighed. “I’ll save that whole sordid tale for another day. Long story short, you’re a mage and that’s wonderful and we’re very glad to have you on board.”

He actually seemed to mean that.

“Could I—I don’t know the rules for recruits. But my family …” Bethany swallowed hard. “They’ll want to know if I … that I’m alive. Am I allowed to write to them?”

Alistair’s brow furrowed in surprise. “Of course you are,” he assured her. “It may be a week or two before we can get a letter anywhere—we’re still clearing out this nasty little knot of darkspawn. But we’ll make sure they hear from you.” Understanding dawned on his face. “Did Stroud give you the ‘you do not know what you are asking, you may never see your family again’ speech?”

Bethany bobbed her head in an awkward nod, fighting back tears as they rose in the corners of her eyes.

“Maker, we need to work on our recruitment literature.” Alistair shook his head. “Lots of Grey Wardens visit their families. Or their families come visit them. Nathaniel—you’ll meet him soon—he sees his sister all the time.” He gave her an encouraging little smile. “They try to make life as a Warden sound bad to scare off people who aren’t serious about it. It’s really not so awful. I rather like it. But I’ve been told I’m a buffoon with no judgment or taste, so you may not want to listen to me.”

“You don’t seem like a buffoon,” Bethany said honestly. A jokester, yes. But a kind one.

“I don’t? Oh, that’s splendid. My dastardly plan is working.” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “So. Can I get you another plate?”

Bethany opened her mouth to say she wasn’t even done with this one, but when she looked down, she realized she was holding the last bite in her hand. “Would you mind terribly?”

“I would not mind at all.” Alistair stood and offered her a bow. “Welcome to the Grey Wardens, Bethany.”

She only sort of had to force a smile. “Thank you, Alistair.”


	3. Chapter 3

They had not even been in camp a full minute when it began again.

“What Holy Andraste's name was that, Hawke?”

It took Bethany a very long moment to realize Clarel meant her. “I … what?”

“You are holding back. You are casting spells at half strength and with insufficient speed.” Clarel stepped close, her severe face drawn in a glower. Bethany flinched but forced herself not to step back. “You will not survive life as a Warden if you do not give every battle your all.”

_ I’m trying,  _ Bethany thought, though she knew better than to say so to Clarel. The Orlesian mage was an uncompromising taskmaster who took being a Grey Warden very seriously. Within a minute of meeting her Bethany could tell that she did not approve of the circumstances that brought her to the Wardens. She thought they had recruited Bethany out of pity. That she was dead weight.

_ And maybe I am. _

She was not born for this life. Every day made that clearer. Trailing behind the others along the paths of the Storm Coast was one thing. But life as a Warden did not allow for casting fireballs from a discreet distance. Bethany was expected to take her place on the front lines of the fight against the Darkspawn. To face the creatures that had killed Carver day after day after day.

And it was breaking her.

“Are you listening to me, Hawke?”

Clarel’s face was now inches from hers, her harsh features arranged in a display of utter scorn.

Well, if Anders had been telling the truth, it wasn’t like she could get kicked out of the Wardens. So Bethany did something she almost never did: she snapped.

“Of course I’m bloody listening,” Bethany snarled. “I can't not. You’ve been shouting at me since the moment you met me. Will you stop if I apologize profoundly for being such a disappointment?”

They were beginning to draw an audience.

Clarel’s chest swelled in rage as she took a deep breath. “Insubordination. Disrespect. Lack of effort. Shall I continue to list all of the ways in which you are unsuited to being a Grey Warden? Ours is a sacred duty ...”

“To defeat the Blights, yes, I know. Then why didn’t we see you in Ferelden?” This, she had learned, was a sore spot for Clarel; the Orlesian had desperately wanted Weisshaupt to defy Loghain and march her Wardens to the front lines of the fight. 

She tilted her chin up as the mage fumbled for a reply. “My hometown was burned to the ground by Darkspawn while the Grey Wardens argued politics. So you will forgive me if I am unimpressed with your Order. And with you.”

“Bethany!”

Alistair’s cheerful voice broke through the little maze of tents. “Your surname. Does it end in an ‘e?’ Or is it just Hawk like the bird? There’s a peddler here taking mail and I wasn’t sure how to address your letter.” He waved the paper in the air for emphasis. Then he looked between her and Clarel as if only just noticing the other mage. “Oh, sorry. Did I interrupt something?”

Clarel curled her lip at Bethany and stormed away without another word.

Bethany nearly collapsed into a puddle of relief. “Thank you,” she said softly, her cheeks flooding with belated embarrassment as the other Wardens suddenly found someplace else to be.

“Me? What did I do? I just stumbled into this particular area of the camp, as I tend to do.” Alistair grinned down at her with his most innocent expression. 

Bethany tried to smile, but could not quite manage it. Alistair’s expression turned sympathetic. “Want to go for a bit of a walk? We could claim it was a patrol.” 

She nodded. “Yes. That sounds … divine.”

There wasn’t much to choose from as far as scenery went. The Wardens had camped in a dank, rocky stretch of land near an entrance to the Deep Roads; bits of grass had to shove their way in between the stones. But even so, leaving the camp felt like freedom to Bethany. Her Warden senses told her that there were no Darkspawn nearby—at least, not near enough to interrupt them—so she breathed in the chilly air and drank in the quiet. 

Next to her, Alistair shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and made a face. “I’m sorry about Clarel. Maker, I don’t understand why she’s so awful to you.”

Guilt gnawed at Bethany; she didn’t feel she deserved Alistair’s sympathy, not really.  _ Had  _ Clarel been so awful? It wasn’t as if she’d said anything untrue.

“I know why,” she whispered, halting her steps as her shoulders slumping. “It’s because I’m terrible at this.”

Alistair stopped a half pace ahead of her and turned back, surprise on his face. “That’s not true. If you were terrible, you wouldn’t have survived this long. You have good battle instincts, Bethany.” He paused. “But I’ve noticed you’re a bit, um. Cautious? With your magic.”

Bethany nodded. “I … I don’t like using my magic in front of people.”

Alistair’s eyebrows rose. “You mean all that time in the Deep Roads, you never …?”

“Oh, I did then,” Bethany said with a shrug. “But that was different. I knew the people I was with. I knew …” she swallowed. “I knew how they would react, I suppose.”

Alistair finished the thought easily. “You trusted them. But you barely know us.”

Bethany nodded in relief. “And I know the Circles can’t take a mage from the Wardens. But all my life I’ve had to be so careful about who sees me using magic. And now the Wardens want it from me at the first sign of trouble. I know how to hide. But I don’t know how to be … this.” She gestured to her Warden uniform and shook her head in frustration. “Maker. The Darkspawn destroyed my home. They killed my brother right in front of me. I should want to fight them! But all I want to do is go home and have a cup of hot tea and sleep in a real bed and never see another genlock for the rest of my days.” 

Her cheeks flooded even redder when she realized how this must sound to Alistair, of all people. “Maker, I’m sorry. You lived through the entire Blight and saw it all firsthand. You must think I’m awful.”

“Awful?” Alistair tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Hmmm. You know, you’re right. I guess you must be awful if you don’t like stomping through mud and fighting Genlocks. All really good people enjoy suffering and long marches and lots of camping.”

Bethany laughed softly. “You don’t think I’m weak?”

Alistair shook his head. “Not even a little.” He looked down at her thoughtfully. “How much do you remember about the Joining?”

“Almost nothing.” A few scraps had come back to her—being propped up, drinking something awful—but she’d more or less fallen asleep a normal girl and woken up a Warden.

Alistair took a deep breath. “There are a lot of unpleasant things you’ll learn about being a Warden, but the Joining is usually the first. They don’t tell recruits much about it because, well, a lot of recruits don’t survive the process. There’s a cup, you drink some spelled Darkspawn blood, and it either makes you a Warden or kills you.”

Bethany felt her jaw drop in a revolted gasp. “I drank  _ Darkspawn blood? _ ”

“You did. So did I, if it’s any consolation.”

“Maker. I’m going to spend the rest of my life talking to people who voluntarily drank Darkspawn blood.” Bethany shook her head and couldn’t help a laugh.

“It’s just one of the many insanities that sets the Grey Wardens apart,” Alistair agreed, a little twinkle in his brown eyes. “But back to my point. The Joining takes a lot of people. Strong people. Warriors with dozens of battles behind them. You survived it.”

“So I’m meant for this? This was my destiny?” Bethany could not hide some bitterness at that thought. 

“I’m not sure I believe in destinies. You wouldn’t believe what some people told me about mine,” the young man said wryly. “But I do think anyone who lives through the Joining is definitely not weak.”

Bethany resumed their walk, partly to give herself time to think of how to respond. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I seem to say that to you a lot, don’t I?”

Was it her imagination, or did Alistair blush a bit? “Oh, I really don’t mind.”


	4. Chapter 4

Slowly, things got better. Or perhaps Bethany just got used to them. But whatever it was, getting out of her cot in the morning became easier. 

After the fight with Clarel, Bethany was reassigned to Alistair’s team—a move, she suspected, that Alistair himself had orchestrated to get her out from underneath her fellow mage’s thumb, and she was grateful for it. Without the Orlesian’s disapproving glare and harsh comments, magic flowed more easily from her hands in battle. Eventually, Bethany’s heart no longer seized in terror when she felt the Darkspawn near. She was more than a match for these creatures.

_ They  _ were more than a match.

Despite his infamous surname, Nathaniel Howe was courteous and kind, and Bethany liked him almost immediately. It took her longer to become accustomed to Oghren; Alistair had not exaggerated when he said the dwarf smelled like several distilleries. He also swore relentlessly. But he was fierce in battle and Bethany had to admit he was expanding her vocabulary.

And then there was Alistair, funny and generous and far sweeter than anyone who fought Darkspawn ought to be.

Before long Bethany felt the stirrings of a crush. She supposed it wasn’t entirely appropriate, but Maker, when he smiled at her or laughed at something she said, she felt normal again. Better than normal. In Lothering she’d had to hide so many pieces of herself from any boy who showed an interest. But Alistair knew everything. He knew she’d been an apostate, knew what she could do with her magic. And he  _ liked  _ that about her.

For the first time in many years, Bethany liked that about herself as well.

It helped that she was using her magic in service of a good cause. The Darkspawn still posed a threat to remote villages like the one where she had grown up, and while nothing could bring Lothering back, it made her smile to see them retreat, to know another family had been spared a deadly flight from their home.

She was almost sad when the letter came from Vigil’s Keep informing the Ferelden Wardens that they were to return home. That sadness was dimmed, however, when Nathaniel offhandedly mentioned that she would have a room and a bed in their headquarters. Bethany didn’t dare ask about a bath, but she allowed herself to dream a little.

As they crossed the Waking Sea, however, Bethany noticed that Alistair did not share her enthusiasm. He still made jokes, but they felt forced, and she noticed him becoming drawn and nervous the closer they drew to their destination.

At first Bethany thought he was merely uneasy on the water. She’d spent half of her first voyage to Kirkwall doubled over a bucket herself, so she sympathized. But he never seemed to be seasick, and Bethany grew increasingly convinced something was worrying him.

A few nights before they were to make landfall, Bethany was walking the deck of the ship, trying to remember Isabela’s advice about not getting seasick.  _ Breathe the fresh air  _ had definitely been one of her tips, so Bethany made a habit of doing that. Unfortunately the others were about whiskey and sex with a crew member, neither of which Bethany had access to at the moment. She was just thinking about asking Oghren for a sip from his stash when she spotted a familiar silhouette, leaning on the railing and staring across the water.

Before she’d really thought about it, she crossed the deck to join him.

“Pretty night,” she said when she was a few steps behind him, not wanting to startle him too badly.

Alistair jumped anyway. “What? I—oh. Yes. Very pretty. Nice night, as nights on boats go.”

“You don’t like to sail?” she asked, stepping to his side and resting her elbows next to his.

“I haven’t thought much about it, honestly. It’s fine. A good way to get from one place to another. Better than swimming, I suppose. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to swim the Waking Sea in full armor.”

She laughed. “You’ve tried it, then?”

“More than once. Nathaniel keeps pulling me out before I drown.” He turned his head to smile at her—his usual kind expression, but a bit strained around the edges. “So. What brings you above decks in the dark?”

Bethany wasn’t sure she wanted to explain about Isabela and her advice—it was hard to do that without blushing—so she said, “I get a bit seasick sometimes. The fresh air helps. You?”

“Oh. The same.”

For the first time, Bethany was sure Alistair was lying to her.

“Are you looking forward to returning to Vigil’s Keep?” she asked cautiously. “It must feel like home for you, after so many years with the Wardens.”

She could see Alistair’s grimace even in the dark. “I … ah. Not quite. Vigil’s Keep has a strange history. It hasn’t been a Warden stronghold for very long. It used to be the ancestral seat of the Howe family before Rendon lost the Howes their Arling.”

Bethany supposed she ought to know that, being from Ferelden, but Lothering had been far from any noble seats of power and she knew only bits and pieces of such lore. “Poor Nathaniel,” she said instinctively. “That can’t be easy for him.”

“He does better with it than most would. But no, I don’t think it is.” Alistair’s lips pressed together and he stared back out into the darkness.

Bethany listened to the waves rush past, ran her tongue across her lower lip to taste the salt air. “I don’t think it’s easy for you either.”

Alistair looked down at her with surprise etched on every line of his face. “Is it that obvious? Maker, and here I was hoping I was mysterious and inscrutable,” he sighed. “Vigil’s Keep is fine. Better than camping. It’s … well. This is going to sound stupid. But about a week after we get back we’re going to have to go to this party.”

Bethany’s eyebrows drew together. “A party,” she repeated. Large social events had never particularly delighted her either, but compared to sleeping on the ground and cleaning Genlock blood from her boots, it didn’t sound  _ that  _ bad. “I didn’t think Wardens got invited to many parties.”

“It’s the anniversary of the end of the Fifth Blight.” Alistair sighed. “We are all going to go to Denerim and parade about in our pretty blue armor and wave to the happy people, and then attend a dinner and a ball. The Warden-Commander is off doing Warden Commander-y things at Weisshaupt, though. So I’m the ranking Warden. Which means I’ll be front and center for the whole thing, and Anora will spend the entire event glaring holes in my head.”

It took Bethany a few breaths to realize that Alistair meant Queen Anora. “Her Majesty dislikes you?” she asked, startled by the idea that anyone could  _ not  _ like Alistair.

Alistair rubbed his hand across his face. “I blame Eamon. Putting me forward as a candidate for the throne was his brilliant suggestion.” He looked over at her and winced a bit. “Oh. Sorry. I think I forgot to tell you. I’m a bastard. My father was ...”

“King Maric. I know.” Bethany stared out over the dark waves and laughed a little. “Oghren mentioned it a few weeks ago. And it was part of the stories going around Kirkwall. But to be honest I assumed that was embellished storytelling. It seemed a little too romantic, King Maric’s long-lost son riding out of nowhere to help stop a Blight.”

“Oh.” Alistair seemed startled. “I … well. Nice to avoid an awkward surprise, I suppose. At any rate. Anora’s always worrying that someone will raise rebellions against her in my name. I do my best to convince people that I have absolutely no interest in being King, but she still looks like she’s measuring my neck for a chopping block every time I see her.” He shuddered. “And then there are the rest of the nobles, trying to figure out if they should treat me like a Grey Warden or a Prince or a potential threat to the stability of the nation.”

He drew a breath. “But it’s more than that. There are so many people who should be there to celebrate with us who aren’t. What Loghain did … some of the finest people I’ve ever known died on that field at Ostagar. It’s been years, and it still makes me so angry to remember it. I hate celebrating without them.”

Even in the dark, Bethany could see Alistair’s hands tightening against the railing of the ship. She thought about what Carver had seen at Ostagar, how fractured his sleep had been after he returned home, and how much she still missed him after the Blight took his life in the end.

“They were your friends,” she said quietly. “Of course you’re angry they’re not here.”

Alistair’s mouth twisted for a moment, and though Bethany could not see him well enough to know, she sensed he was holding back tears. Tentatively, she lay one of her hands over his and squeezed it gently. His fingers curled in, squeezing back.

After a pause, he cleared his throat. “But I haven’t even gotten to the worst part. I can’t dance. At all. And I never know which fork to use.”

“Well, I can help you with  _ that _ ,” Bethany offered, smiling and accepting the change in subject. “Start with the forks and knives on the outside and work your way in with each course. Anything at the top of your plate is for dessert. And don’t put your elbows in the butter.”

Her friend blinked. “Bethany Hawke. Have you been hiding your secret fancy-dinner-party knowledge from me? I am wounded. Deeply.”

“You never asked,” Bethany replied archly. “Don’t they teach you these things in the Chantry?”

“Maker, no. Multiple eating utensils? That would be a frivolous waste.” Alistair shook a scolding finger at her. “We only had one spoon-fork and all the orphans had to share it. Just as Andraste intended. And now I am woefully unprepared for fine dinners and fancy company.”

“I’ll tell you what. Sit next to me and do what I do. Then, if I make a mistake, at least we’ll both look like fools together.” She nudged his elbow with hers. “Come on. It won’t be that bad.”

“Are you willing to place a bet on that, Bethany Hawke?” Alistair asked wryly. But his voice softened as he spoke his next words. “I … thank you. I think it might be almost tolerable if I have a friend there with me.”

Bethany realized, suddenly, that she was still holding Alistair’s hand. She almost moved away—but instead, she stood in place, watching the ocean in the dark, trying very hard not to think about how nice and right his hand felt in hers.


	5. Chapter 5

The first time Alistair wanted to kiss Bethany Hawke came about two weeks after the incident with Clarel. A particularly devious Genlock had nearly closed in on Nathaniel—a hard man to sneak up on—when their newest Warden spotted him. Without a word, she spun on one heel and clenched her fists. Fire erupted from the creature, and that was that. Bethany’s smile when Nathaniel thanked her afterwards was so full of joy and pride that Alistair’s heart skipped a beat—something he’d thought was just a saying.

He shrugged it off as a momentary passing fantasy. But the more confident she grew with her powers, the more she smiled, the more she began to open up and tell them stories of her friends in Kirkwall, the more frequently those thoughts came. Shy, gentle Bethany had revealed herself to be a loyal friend, a powerful fighter, and a woman with untapped reserves of strength and determination. Every time he learned something new about her he seemed to fall a little deeper. 

He quietly ignored his feelings, as much as he could. Bethany was a fellow Warden and there was no sense embarrassing himself by attempting to woo her. They’d be stuck together as fellow Grey Wardens and it would all be terribly awkward and Alistair might have to transfer to Orlais to evade the shame, and then he’d live in Orlais, and Maker, who wanted that?

But on the night when Bethany stood with him at the prow of the ship, something occurred to Alistair that had not occurred to him before: that Bethany might feel something of the same way.

And slowly, quietly, hopefully, he began to work on a plan.

*

Nathaniel’s sigh was more than halfway towards a groan. “Out with it, Alistair.”

From the other side of the table, Alistair dropped his fork in surprise. “Out with what?”

“Whatever is making you sneak those looks at me,” Nathaniel replied dryly. “You’ve been doing it on and off for the past two days.”

“I. Um. You grew up noble, right?”

Nathaniel arched an eyebrow. “Do I want to know where this is going?”

“Did you learn to do all that noble stuff, like eat with the right fork? And, um, dance?” Alistair stared down at his potatoes, trying to remain casual.

His fellow Warden leaned back from the table in surprise. “I did. My parents were somewhat, ah, severe about revelry. But the formal court dances—yes, I know those.”

“I just thought it might be a good idea to learn one or two. For the celebration in Denerim,” Alistair said lamely.

Nathaniel reached for his water. “Last year you told me you’d rather set yourself on fire than dance to celebrate the Blight. Whatever could have brought about your change of heart?” His voice was thick with sarcasm.

“Heh-heh,” Oghren chortled. “I can guess. Someone name’a Bethany? Can't say I blame you, boy. That is one astonishingly good pair of—" He saw Nathaniel's expression and faltered. "Er, pair of eyes. Nice eyes on that gal.”

Alistair had tried hard to grow from the bumbling-on-purpose Chantry boy he’d been at the beginning of the Blight, but Maker damn them both, he felt his cheeks heat with a blush. He stole a quick look around the Vigil’s Keep dining room, but to his relief, Bethany was still not there. She’d said something about wanting a bath, and he suspected she was still luxuriating in the chance to enjoy hot water for once.

“I … all right. Yes. I like her,” he huffed. 

He immediately felt as if he’d said the wrong thing.  _ Like  _ wasn’t the right word. Maybe it had been, weeks or months ago, but it wouldn’t do any more. You didn’t just  _ like  _ someone if you kept imagining running your fingers through her dark curls, or memorizing the way her mouth curved up when she was going to laugh.

Oghren snickered. Alistair realized he had been staring off into space.

“Will you help me or not?” he demanded, his blush deepening.

“Of course,” Nathaniel said, smiling one of his rare, subtle grins. “But only because I like Bethany, and I don’t want you to step on her toes.”


	6. Chapter 6

Bethany had not been a little girl who dreamed of attending fancy royal balls. That kind of expensive public gathering felt too far out of reach for Malcolm Hawke’s apostate daughter, even though she knew Leandra Amell must have attended more than her fair share of fine parties in Kirkwall. 

As she looked around the Great Hall of the royal palace, Bethany thought it was rather a good thing that she had not dreamed about this sort of moment. For one thing, she was wearing her Warden dress uniform instead of a ball gown—it was a handsome garment, blue and silver and nicely tailored, but hardly the silk finery her mother had described from her heiress days. For another, the room was quite hot, and everyone seemed to be either drunk or on the way to being drunk. She had noticed a certain anxious quality to the dinner that had preceded the event; thinking of the Blight brought up unpleasant memories for everyone in Ferelden, she supposed. This was not an easy anniversary to celebrate.

At her side, Alistair winced. “She’s looking at me again.”

Bethany’s eyes flickered over to Queen Anora, one of the few sober people in the room. The Queen was accepting well-wishes from some Bann or another, but her green eyes often found Alistair, narrowing when they settled on him. It was as if she wanted to keep track of him at all times, take note of who he spoke to and who spoke to him. Bethany hoped Anora had noticed the fact that Alistair had barely spoken to anyone besides his fellow Wardens.

“I don’t think she’s measuring your neck for a chopping block,” she offered. “But she does seem to be on the lookout for a conspiracy.”

“I tried to be in a conspiracy once,” Alistair said thoughtfully. “It was rather a disaster. The other boys ate all the cakes in the kitchen while I played lookout and I was the only one who got punished. I’ve sworn them off ever since.”

“Cakes?” Bethany asked teasingly.

“No, conspiracies. I still quite like cakes.” Alistair grinned down at her. 

In the ballroom, the music changed from a lively Ferelden folk tune to a romantic, lilting song. As he listened to it, Alistair’s smile changed. It was no longer an easygoing grin, but something far gentler and more unsure. His eyes never departed from Bethany’s face.

“So. Um. Would you like—well, we’re just standing here, and there’s dancing over there. And if we’re dancing, no one will be able to invite me to join a conspiracy. So you’d really be doing me a favor if you, ah—” He paused and cleared his throat. “Maker, can I start over? Bethany Hawke, would you dance with me?”

Bethany felt her lips part in surprise. By now she knew him well enough to see that his question was no mere suggestion between friends. Her heart sped in her chest as a light blush rose to her cheeks. “I—I thought you didn’t dance.”

“Nathaniel taught me a few steps. Specifically, he taught me steps to a waltz, and I’m fairly sure this is a waltz.” Alistair began to look uncertain. “But if you’d rather not—I mean, I understand, why would you—”

“Alistair,” Bethany interrupted. 

He fell silent.

She smiled up at him shyly and slid her hand through the crook of his elbow. “I would love to dance with you.”

They were not the most elegant couple on the floor. Bethany’s mother had taught her the steps long ago, but she was out of practice—if, indeed, she had ever been  _ in  _ practice—and Alistair was still new to them. But slowly, beat by beat, they settled into a gentle rhythm, stepping and spinning together on the edge of the dance floor as the strings swelled and ebbed in the background.

When they had found their pace, Alistair cleared his throat quietly. “I should tell you something.” He pulled back just a little bit, his handsome face tilted down towards hers. “I like you, Bethany. Not as a friend. I mean, I do like you as a friend. But it’s—it’s more than that, for me. You’re beautiful and you’re kind and you’re brave and—I think we’ve become close. And I can’t help but hope that you might feel the same way.” The expression on his face was heartbreakingly vulnerable. “Do you? Feel the same way?”

Bethany felt little tears spring to the back of her eyes as she looked at him, and she could not stop the most ridiculous grin from spreading across her features. “I do. I do feel the same way. Alistair, I—I think you’re wonderful.”

She almost forgot herself, then. She rose herself halfway up on her toes to kiss him before she remembered they were in public. Alistair had bent his head nearly to hers before he saw her blush, and started laughing as he straightened.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” Bethany asked, her blush deepening. “A long one. To someplace private.”

Alistair’s grin was answer enough.

*

Alistair and Bethany kissed for the first time in the garden of the Denerim palace—and then for the second, and third, and so many more that no one could have kept count.

“So,” she said as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his forehead against hers. “Is this an improvement over last year’s ball?”

“There’s no contest,” Alistair assured her, his grin brilliant in the dark. “And it’s the oddest thing. Somehow I don’t think I will ever dread this party again.”

She reached up to cup his cheek with her hand, tracing her thumb across his jaw and up to his mouth with a sort of wonder. “I’m very glad to hear that,” she whispered, pressing herself close to kiss him again.


End file.
